So Simple, So Perfect
by Charlotte K
Summary: Sherlock's lips are tempting. Inviting. Eventually, John just can't resist.
1. So Simple, So Perfect

Like an artist gently stroking a canvas, Sherlock slowly sweeps his bow across the strings of his violin, quietly humming along with the tune; his eyes closed lightly. The glow of the fireplace casts an orange aura over his serene face, darkening the once faint shadows of his eyelashes on his cheekbones. His hair, wet and curly, is glued in an odd pattern to his forehead, and the glow in his face illuminates the droplets of water that have gathered at the corners of his brows. The richness in his humming voice reminds John of cocoa and milk heated specially for winter nights like this. Sherlock hits a sweet note on the violin, and the corners of his mouth curve up, as he purses his lips ever so slightly.

Those lips. John cannot resist them; their fullness, the way they curve when Sherlock smiles, and their cupid-bowed shape. They're irresistable, and he knows it. He's seen them over and over before- mumbling, deducing, cursing, whispering- but it's only in precious moments that he ever gets to see them closed and pulled into the tiniest smirk, showing off how beautiful and wonderful they really are. John wants them. He wants to feel the contours of those lips with his own. He wants their soft sweetness. He craves them. And here they are, right in front of him, holding back the full rumble of Sherlock's voice, pursed and ready, as if they're telling John, kiss me. I want you to. Those lips taunt John. They tease him. They tempt him. He needs them.

Sherlock's eyes flutter open. In the brightness of the fire, the irises appear black, but John knows that even in their shadowy disguise, they are the icy blue that has kept him captivated from the start. Sherlock parts his lips subtly, and his eyes close. All John wants to do is look into those icy, steely, perfect eyes, close his own, and love Sherlock's lips with the passion and attention that they so deserve. He could do it now. It's so simple. All he has to do is pad along the floor the five steps he needs to reach Sherlock, set down the violin, and catch the man by surprise. He feels a burning in the back of his eyes as he thinks about everything he wants to do. He shifts in his chair. His body is set to go, ready to take those steps, cup the side of Sherlock's face, and love the man for everything that he is worth. It would be so simple, so perfect, but John can't move. Not yet.

He takes Sherlock in with his eyes; his long legs, his slightly muscled arms, the worn navy bathrobe that clings in all the right places. The front of the bath robe is open just enough to reveal a toned chest, and hints at a set of alabaster abs hidden beneath the thin satin. Sherlock turns a little in his chair, the bathrobe opening to one side, briefly exposing a nipple before he turns back and keeps playing the violin tucked snugly under his chin. John can feel his tongue dart out to graze his upper lip. He can hear his heartbeat in his head, and he knows that soon, the rest of his body will catch on.

Feeling as though he is in a dream, his legs straighten out, and he quietly stands up. Sherlock continues to play. John's footsteps are in time with every second thump of his beating heart. One. Thump. Two... three... four... and five. He reaches out slowly, so slowly, and pushes down the end of the violin with two fingers. Sherlock looks up at him, the fire in his eyes burning as brightly as the one beneath the mantle. He says nothing. John takes the violin and bow, and places them carefully on the ground. Not taking his eyes from the beauty before him, he rests a now trembling hand on the side of Sherlock's face, smoothing his thumb over a sharp cheekbone. He leans in close, closes his eyes, and closes the space between their lips.

It all seems so simple, so perfect. Because it_ is._


	2. The Idea Of Love

For the first time since he can remember, Sherlock can't seem to keep focused. Inspector Lestrade gave him a few vague details about the dead woman laying face-down on the tarmac, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to pay attention. Now, he's kneeling down beside her in the morning rain, sifting through her hair and studying her eerily serene face. She's been dead for two hours, he notices. She's been dead for two hours, she's _not_ ambidextrous, and her death wasn't in fact a murder. He spouts off a stream of deductions about the young woman and her death, and decides to ignore the "freak" that comes out of Seargent Donovan's mouth. The wind picks up, and Sherlock shivers violently.

He regrets not inviting John to follow him to the crime scene. The morning feels plain and maybe a little empty without John's uses of "Brilliant!" or "fantastic!". He gives the woman's body another once-over, looking for the tiniest details, but his mind is still on John. Even so, Sherlock tries his best to continue impressing Lestrade and ignoring Donovan, and it isn't long before he decides that he's had enough of the cold, grey street and chilling rain. He stands up, adjusts his scarf, and with a simple "text me any more details" thrown in Lestrade's direction, Sherlock swishes his coat out behind him as he cuts through an alley on his way back home.

An empty cab passes him by close to Baker Street, and slows down almost dramatically, as if asking Sherlock to stop and hail it. He ignores the cab. He turns and cuts through another alley, even though it means he'll have to walk around the entire block a second time before reaching 221B. He doesn't mind, though. He needs to think.

John kissed him last night. Without a word, he walked across the floor, put the violin down, and before Sherlock realized that it was really happening, their lips pressed together and a rush of warmth coursed through Sherlock's veins. Sherlock's chest tingles at the memory. He can almost smell John's worn-off cologne, and he can almost feel the feather-light brush of John's stubble against Sherlock's skin. He feels confused. The question isn't why John kissed him, it's why John _wanted_ to do it in the first place. He goes out of his way to kick a small rock on the edge of the sidewalk, and he watches as it bounces across the cement and lands with a _plink_ in the storm drain. The rain starts to come down harder, and it sneaks in through his upturned coat collar and tickles the exposed skin at the back of his neck. He quickens his pace until the end of the block comes into view. An odd sense of intrigue and anxiety starts to float up from his stomach into his throat, but he swallows it down, and with a deep breath and a shake of his head, he enters the flat.

John isn't home. Not that Sherlock was hoping he would be. Okay, yes, he _was_ hoping John would still be there, and Sherlock can't help but feel slightly disappointed by the man's absence. He shrugs his coat off and hangs it up with his scarf on the hooks by the door. He toes out of his shoes, and peels off his damp socks, tossing them into a corner. He fishes his dressing gown out between the cushions of the Chesterfield, and flops down with a huff. He reaches down and pulls a nicotine patch out of the small box on the floor. John would have gotten after Sherlock for leaving his things lying around, but Sherlock just sees it as convenient, since he doesn't have far to reach for them. He slaps a new patch on the inside of his forearm, and closes his eyes. The sound of the rain pattering on the windows helps to calm his racing thoughts, and for the first time in ages, Sherlock drifts into a light sleep.

_Sherlock is unexplainably, unbelievably happy. He and John are sitting in the sand by the sea, while the sun smiles down at them, as if it's tapping into Sherlock's joy. A small crab skitters past, and leaves a little trail in the sand behind him. Sherlock wonders if the crab is happy, too. The gulls flying over head swoop down in search of food, but find none, and disappear into the sky. John rests his head against Sherlock's shoulder, takes him by the hand, and begins to whisper endearments into his ear._

_ "You are amazing," he says. _

_ Sherlock feels himself smile._

_ "You are beautiful. Clever. Brilliant."_

_ "John..."_

_ "Sherlock, I'm in love."_

_ "John."_

_ There is no answer._

"John?" Sherlock wakes himself with his own voice. "John?"

The flat is silent; John is still not home. Sherlock rubs his eyes, and reaches into his pocket for his phone. There are three new text messages from Lestrade. Sherlock's deductions were right: it was a suicide. He snorts. _Boring..._ He throws his phone into John's armchair, and peels off the nicotine patch. He stares up at the ceiling, and little snippets of his dream replay themselves in the back of his mind. How could it be possible to feel such euphoria? He remembers what John said to him, and he begins to wonder. _Could John really be in love with me?_

For the second time today, he thinks back to last night's kiss. The idea of John being in love with Sherlock doesn't seem so ridiculous after all. Sherlock smiles to himself at the thought. Before he can stop himself, he thinks about kissing John again.

When the door to 221B opens and John's footsteps slowly make their way up the stairs, Sherlock is given seconds to decide. He doesn't want to attach sentiment to John. He doesn't want to attach sentiment to _anything_, for that matter. But another part of him wants to breathe in that cologne again, feel the warmth of those lips, and take John by surprise. When the door opens and John comes in loaded down with groceries, Sherlock is already there. He takes the bags out of one of John's hands, and sets them down by the counter. Before he gets a chance to hear John ask about his sudden willingness to help with the shopping, Sherlock cups the shorter man's face in his hand, and closes the gap between them.


	3. Good Night, John

It's nearly midnight. John swishes around the wine in his glass and takes a sip. He never wanted to come to Mycroft's birthday party at all, but he knew that if he and Sherlock didn't show, it would be worse than an insult. He glances around the spacious ballroom and lets his eyes wander over the men and women dancing to the soft, slow song of the band in the corner of the room. The men are in suits much more expensive than John's, and the women swish around in their flowy, floor-length gowns and impossibly high heels. He tries to watch them the way he thinks Sherlock would. _Slicked back hair, tight updos, crimson lipstick_... he watches, but all he can see is expensive accessories and posh people he is happy to be different from. He recognizes the tune in the background. It's a classical piece he's heard Sherlock play on his violin, but that's as much as he knows. He watches everyone as they glide across the floor effortlessly, and he scans the crowd in search of Sherlock.

He finds him with a young woman in a tight red dress. In his mind, he names her Ariel. She has an arm draped over his shoulder, and his hand rests in the small of her back as they weave through the crowd and sweep across the floor. John can feel his face starting to grow warm, and not just from the wine. The woman might be attractive, yes, but it is Sherlock that he finds he can't take his eyes off. He finds it amazing that with a change in posture, a crisp new shirt, and a softened facial expression, Sherlock becomes a completely different man. John sighs inwardly, and finishes off his glass of wine. He wants Sherlock to himself.

Someone bumps into John from behind, and he turns around quickly, startled. A woman picks herself up off the floor, and slips back into her shoe.

"Are you alright?" John asks uneasily, unsure if he's supposed to use a different from normal tone of voice for a woman at such a prestigious party.

"Yes, fine," she replies with an embarrassed giggle. "I think I've had a bit too much." John feels himself relax. He holds out a hand as he has an idea.

"Would you like to dance?"

As charming as the woman seems, John can't bring himself to pay his full attention to her. He is careful not to step on her when she stumbles, but other than that, his eyes are fixed on Sherlock. He is still with Ariel and her tight dress. Slowly, he steps them closer to Sherlock and Ariel, hoping that Sherlock would just look up from her and _notice _him.

_Come on, Sherlock_, John urges with his thoughts. _I want you._ Sherlock and Ariel turn, and a few moments later, Ariel's long curls brush up against John's shoulder. John looks up to see that Sherlock has caught on. John nearly shivers under the man's intense stare, and with a kiss to Ariel's cheek, Sherlock breaks away from her and cuts in and takes John's hand. The warmth in John's face spreads through his whole body when Sherlock's other hand comes to rest on John's back. It warms through his shirt and sends a tingle over his skin, like some electric buzz.

Sherlock pulls John in closer. The warm breath on his neck causes John to actually shiver this time, and Sherlock's chuckle rumbles in his ear.

"You couldn't resist, could you."

John parts his lips to respond, but the words won't come out.

"You know, people might talk," Sherlock whispers. John can hear the smirk in his words. "But no matter," he says before John can answer. "You're not boring."

John nods slowly, staring up into Sherlock's face. His expression looks different from when he was with Ariel. Sherlock's look of adoration feels... _genuine_. John stands slightly on tiptoe and captures Sherlock in a kiss.

"Let them talk, then."

John is almost asleep on the cab ride home. They turn a corner and he feels his head loll and rest on Sherlock's shoulder. He feels Sherlock tense up, but instead of shrugging him off like John was expecting, he instead relaxes his shoulders, and sits still. The faint scent of black cherry on Sherlock's coat and the rhythmic beating of his heart drifts John off to sleep.

"John," Sherlock says quietly. "John, we're here."

"Hmm?" John rubs his eyes with a yawn.

Sherlock helps him out of the taxi, and then up the stairs into the flat. John doesn't remember how many glasses of wine he had tonight, and a yawn that seems to last forever forces itself out from his chest.

"Right, let's get you to bed," Sherlock mumbles. In his bedroom, John steps out of his trousers and struggles to unbutton his shirt. When Sherlock pulls the blanket over John's shoulders, he sits down at the foot of the bed. John starts to drift off again, and just before surrendering to sleep once more, he feels Sherlock get up from the bed and press a warm kiss to his forehead.

"Good night, John."


	4. Simply Beautiful

_What time is it now?_ Sherlock wonders. He's been passed out since two o'clock in the afternoon, when he flopped down on the couch to think. It's dark outside now, and it's dark in the flat, too. He runs his tongue over his teeth. They feel fuzzy, and his mouth tastes sour. He sits up and runs his fingers through his hair, and few pieces of lint float down to the floor. Time for a shower, definitely. He stands up and wanders to the kitchen in search of John. John, he realizes, isn't home. Sherlock sighs deeply. These days, he hates waking up alone. Why wake up alone when he could wake up to John?

He stares blankly at the tea kettle for a moment, but decides against it. He doesn't feel like making tea. Too much effort. He picks up his phone from the table, and frowns when he realizes that it's dead. He looks up at the clock on the wall, and is almost surprised to find that it's close to nine-thirty. _Five and a half hours? Really?_ Sherlock snorts. That's one of the longest naps he's ever had while on a case. Well, not that this case is particularly difficult. Someone had trespassed into Fitton airfield in the middle of the night and broke into a small plane, stealing a few documents and some money left on board and then breaking into the captain's office and vandalizing it. _It was the CEO of the airline's ex-husband,_ Sherlock knows. _Dull. Maybe I should get around to telling Lestrade. _He doesn't understand why the flustered woman even consulted him in the first place. It didn't take a genius, Sherlock thinks, to figure out who had done that to her plane. If anything, the case was a three on the scale of one to ten.

He walks over to the window and pulls the curtain back. He peers out into the orange lamplight of the street, and wonders for a moment where John could be. He ignores the part of his brain that tries to scold him about sentiment and why he shouldn't feel it. This is the second time he's woken up without John, and he doesn't like it. He plugs in his phone, and when the battery charges enough for him to turn it on, he finds three missed calls and seven new text messages. Two of the calls are from Lestrade, probably wondering how the case is coming along. The other call is from John. Sherlock wonders if John left a voicemail. One of the text messages is from Lestrade, the other two are from John, three are from potential clients that Sherlock decides to ignore, and the last one if from a blocked number, which Sherlock also ignores. Lestrade's messages aren't interesting, and Sherlock deletes them without reading them all the way through. He stops and reads John's a few times.

_I'm going out. Getting groceries. -JW_

_ I got called into work. They need me in the emergency room. I might be back very late. Dropped off the shopping in the kitchen quick, but you were sleeping. Could you put them away please? -JW_

Sherlock doesn't delete John's messages.

Completely out of boredom, Sherlock puts away the groceries: celery (dull), tomatoes (yuck), tea, jam, milk (boring), and a box of Arrowroot biscuits (finally, something good). He even makes sure he puts the vegetables in the crisper, well away from the severed forearm sitting on the bottom shelf. He should really get around to experimenting with that, before he has to get rid of it. Eventually, he calls Lestrade and tells him about the Fitton airfield case, and when he hangs up, he tosses his phone at the Chesterfield and sighs dramatically. There's nothing to do, and John's not here.

When John finally does come home, two hours and a nicotine patch later, he looks absolutely drained. The bags under his eyes are like shadows, and he slips out of his shoes and hangs up his coat with an air of exhaustion. He rolls his shoulders, and stretches his back. His back cracks loudly.

"Long shift," Sherlock notes. "Everybody picked a good day to have an emergency?"

"Not even funny, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry."

For a moment, Sherlock thinks John looks surprised at the two words.

"Your back and shoulders," Sherlock says. "They're sore. Am I right?"

John nods.

"Do you want me to help with that?"

"Help with that, as in a massage?" John asks. Sherlock can pick up the hopeful tone in the man's voice, even though it is barely there.

"You can lay down on my bed."

Sherlock starts by rubbing a little olive oil between his palms. He places one hand on the warm skin of John's tailbone, and the other hand rests between the shoulder blades. Slowly, he rubs the oil over John's back, and works it into his skin. He picks up John's undershirt and jumper, which are beside him on the sheet, and tosses them on the floor. This jumper isn't as ugly as the others; it would be a shame to get oil on it. Sherlock straddles John and sits as lightly as he can on the back of the man's thighs. John shifts underneath him slightly, and emits a little sigh. He likes it, Sherlock can tell.

Once he spreads the oil nicely over the skin, Sherlock uses his fingers to trace lines and patterns across John's shoulder blades. He draws out the water molecule, and then the more complicated Oxytocin molecule. John seems to like it. Then, Sherlock starts to map out the streets of London over John's entire back. He marks Baker Street with the firm pressure of his thumbs, and then plants a kiss where 221B is. John takes in a deep breath. Sherlock lets the corners of his mouth turn up. He presses his lips against a warm shoulder, and another one on the back of John's neck. John moans quietly beneath him.

"You are amazing," John whispers. A strange, warm feeling flares up in Sherlock's stomach.

"Thank you," he whispers. He didn't mean to say it. He wanted to say "I know", but when he opened his mouth, the other words came out instead. John takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and slowly lets it go. Sherlock makes circles with his fingertips over John's ribcage. John turns his head to the side, and closes his eyes. Sherlock watches his peaceful expression, and he can't stop the smile that comes over his face. _Beautiful_. The word floats into his Mind Palace, and rests there. _John Watson, you are beautiful. _He says it out loud. John opens his eyes.

"Sherlock," he says, half-whispering.

_Not good_, Sherlock expects to hear next.

"Come here. Lay down with me."

_A better alternative,_ Sherlock thinks with an internal grin.

Sherlock unbuttons his shirt, and drops it on the ground next to John's jumper. He lays down next to him so they face each other. John reaches out a hand, and smooths it down the side of Sherlock's face. He shivers under John's touch. He's so warm. Lovely.

John's eyes look dark in the dim lighting of the bedroom. Sherlock places his hand on top of John's, and holds it there. His mind has gone silent, and he studies the outline of John's thin lips. He's kissed them before. He loves the way they feel against his own, and he wants them now, more than anything.

The kiss starts off coy and sweet, but heats up when Sherlock feels a hand running down his shoulder and across his ribs. He turns himself over until he is on top of John, and rests his elbows on either side of the pillow. He leans down and kisses John hungrily, savouring the feel of those perfect little lips and cataloguing the sensation in the back of his mind. He nips gently at John's neck, and tastes the salt on his skin. Slowly, very slowly, he leaves a trail of light kisses over his jaw and then nibbles softly at his ear. The soft groan from John travels through Sherlock's body like a ghost.

"You're perfect," John whispers. "You are so, so perfect."

Sherlock says nothing. He replies with a feather-light kiss to John's throat.

"Simply beautiful." John's words vibrate against Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock can't stop the moan rising from deep in his chest. John chuckles quietly, and tries to move. Sherlock gets off John and lays back down on the mattress.

"Turn over," John says.

"Hmm?"

"It's your turn."


	5. You're Perfect

Author's note: Thanks for the lovely reviews! I thought I was gonna end this off at chapter four, but I decided to go for one last chapter. So here you are. I'm so happy you all enjoyed my story, and I hope that you enjoy my other work, too!

* * *

_ "You'll be alright, John."_

_ "Sherlock..."_

_ "Shhh..."_

_ The ambulance picks up speed, and the sirens start blaring. John closes his eyes and tries to focus on the feeling of his hand in Sherlock's. He squeezes tightly, and Sherlock squeezes back. The pain in his side is unbearable. He just wants this to be over._

John awakens slowly. He tries to blink away the white haze that surrounds him, and when his vision starts to clear, he realizes where he is. A small woman in fitted pink scrubs gently puts a hand on his shoulder when he tries to sit up. His head is spinning. There's no sense in asking where he's at. He knows he's in the hospital. _Must be Bart's_, he figures.

"Don't sit up," the nurse says. "You need to rest."

John tries to speak, but he groans instead. The nurse gives a sympathetic smile.

"There we go..." her voice sounds so far away. She says something else, something like "go back to sleep, Doctor Watson", but John isn't quite sure what he hears. He closes his eyes, and feels a blanket covering his shoulders. A man's voice mumbles something that John can't make out. Is that Sherlock? He starts to relax. He tries to open his eyes again, but they feel too heavy. He can feel the young nurse's presence for a few moments, and when he hears her leave the room and close the door, he surrenders to sleep once again.

When he wakes up this time, the blinds on his window are pulled, and the light in his room is dim. He tries to sit up again, but the pain in his right side protests. In the chair beside the bed, Sherlock snores loudly, and then sputters awake. It hurts John to laugh. Sherlock looks exhausted, as if he hasn't slept in a week. His dark curls are rumpled and sweaty, and he has a red patch on his face where his cheek has rested in his hand.

"You look like you could use some kip," John says. Sherlock looks over at him.

"H-how are you feeling?" He asks with a yawn. "Can I get you anything?"

John chuckles, even though it's painful to. "No, I'm okay. But you need to go home and sleep, Sherlock."

Sherlock gives a flippant wave. "Sleeping is dull."

"Oh really? And that's why you've spent _how long _curled up in that chair?"

Sherlock says nothing.

"Seriously, Sherlock, I'm fine."

"It was your appendix," Sherlock says after a brief silence.

"Well, I figured so-"

"When they cut you open, it was about to burst."

"And you know this..._how_?"

"Overheard the doctor telling your nurse about it."

John raises an eyebrow. _Sherlock Holmes actually sounds concerned_, he thinks.

Sherlock scoots the chair closer to John's bed, and sits down.

"I, um... I was worried, you know."

John wonders if he heard that right. "But you knew it was my appendix."

"Well, obviously. But- but still."

John isn't sure what to say. He reaches out his hand, and Sherlock takes it, lacing their fingers together. John looks into Sherlock's face for a moment, and tries to give his most reassuring smile. He knows Sherlock isn't having any of it.

"I'm alright now," John says. "They'll probably keep me here for a few-"

"John, I love you."

A stunned silence falls over the room.

"Sherlock, those are just nerves talking. You're-"

"No, really, John. Ever since that night you walked over and kissed me- the night I played my violin for you. Even before then, I knew I felt something. I tried to hide it before, but after that, I just _couldn't_ any more. I understood that you had kissed me, but I just couldn't figure out precisely _why_, and do you know how infuriating it is when I can't figure something out? Love is not a mystery to me at all, but then I had a dream. I rarely remember my dreams, but this one is simply burned into my head. It was about you and me, and I was _happy_, John. Happy! There were no murders, no mysteries, no puzzles, and I was still happy!"

"Sherlock..."

"John, can't you see? I'm in love with you! I just am. There is no other way I can define it."

"Sherlock, I'm-"

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but shuts it tightly. John takes this moment to finish his sentence.

"Sherlock, I'm in love with you, too."

Sherlock leans over and presses a gentle kiss to John's forehead.

"John, where do we go from here?"

"I thought love wasn't a mystery to you."

"Well, the chemical process is simple. But-"

"Shhh. Sherlock, don't worry about it. Just stay the way you are. You're perfect."


End file.
